


Dress you Up

by Sxtoritera



Category: Guilty Gear
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-03
Updated: 2020-06-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:21:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24516820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sxtoritera/pseuds/Sxtoritera
Summary: A look back at overture; just to bring it back again.
Relationships: Sol Badguy/Ky Kiske
Kudos: 13





	Dress you Up

A hand smooths over fine wrinkles adorning a satin cape. Its color blue—royal; depicting that of prestige, superiority. Just the same, it is a somber hue to which he ornamented over truths with its glamorous ruse. Hefty textile and conservative sleeves hindered the frailty of a toy monarch. Modesty tucked into a veil called robe: shrouding the thoracic basket of a borderline skeletal body. Boots he wore, though they fit, loose around the ankle; his walk known those in his wake by the symphony of chimes—courtesy of belts and chains. The memories: unpleasant, encourages a beautiful man—the age of twenty-nine, at the time—to suspend its addition to his wardrobe with intention to move ahead and embrace his life anew.

A year rolls by and lately, he'd been attending focus about the castle—purging of old things and making room for the new. He encounters his armoire, untouched since their last. Deliberation ceases on this day upon a grip of the polished handle, opening the wardrobe to reacquaint with the light of day. Center of relic finds; a florid gown of ivory and sapphire. Peaks of anxiety formulating within; chewing the fleshy bit of his bottom tier, he reaches to extract the garment. Blond brows knit, reflecting on how he's paraded in the attire a year ago. The ebony seams, busy to create the illusion of volume. HOPE stitched near the bottom of his garb, to remind him of what he represented whenever he felt the temptation to lower his eyes. Could an outfit imbued which strenuous burdens be vindicated?

He caresses along the stomach—finding less room than before. A healthy weight and form marked his road to recovery; perk of full hips giving the flow of the drapery a rise. Humbleness colored to his visage, staring down his reflection; a man he didn't recognize anymore—he looked ... remarkable. As he speculates taking up the embroidered crown from its bed of velvet, resounding steps entice his attention, if not been the wafting soot.

"Knocking would be appreciated," speaks the blond, subconsciously motioning to undo the zipper.

"An' ya know what happen'd the last time I knock'd." responds a larger man; shy of rugged in appearance, yet gruff all the same. Heavy steps proceeding toward the man in white, slinging an arm over shoulders—not a spec of fondness in his gesture; he favored an arm rest is all. Brown tendrils wild despite the restriction of a headband and a hair tie. The monarch often queried if the opposite took time to re-apply a ponytail ever day—otherwise, it shouldn't look... like that. And whilst the more he looked, he fears the habit of staring.

"Can you not?" Huffs the High King begrudgingly, beckoning the male's arm away with a pinch over the forearm.

It didn't hurt, but Sol plays along, tongue clicking as if his pride's been struck. Then their eyes lock; what was supposed to be a snarky rebuttal to a prude playing Holy, instead turns into a breathy "wow..." Aesthetic pouring into the beauty that was Ky, spilling over. Sol, absent-minded, recollects. 'has he worn this before?'

That verbalized 'wow' rubs Ky in ways he couldn't understand, perhaps because he's never remotely experienced Sol surprised in those ways. Was he going to bring up those times when he were at his lowest—rub it in his face? He couldn't fathom why his opinion cared for the matter or why he so devotedly clung to it. The fear of his deplore quakes him beyond comprehension. Heel turning to banish himself from the older male's presence, pushing away the welling tears beading.

"Ky,"

Abrupt, awkward; Sol calls to the Frenchman before he executes his mastery of storming out. Against better judgment, Ky does stop, hands trembling against each other. He could take it—this wasn't the first time the other's teased him. But, this was the first time for the both of them: the situation has changed. The passing glances down the hall—lingering onto each other to the point heads turn just to soak it all in. Silence of their lips, yet the purses and frowns implying there were much to be said. They didn't know when it all happened; time melded their acuity to the point of noticing being the common routine.

"You ... er...look... " Lips fold in, grimace visible from his uncommon attempt at socializing. "... nice."

"... don't patronize me," best not to get his hopes up—the taboo he held on his tongue; much to the caution of sitting in a room alone like this together. What kicks did he get in riling him? "I...I'm not in the mood." He feels a weight overtake him; a pair of arms collecting about his torso, cradling him close. Sanity ebbing in a muddle of tears obstructing his vision; memories pouring in to how he fell to his knees and slandered himself. To his surprise, Sol's words in that moment were the same as back then.

"Y're not weak," Breaths trace along the lobe of Ky's ear. Large palm cupping over the monarch's, insisting it upward to touch the gold plated crux at the nexus of his chest. As if he knew Ky would debate, he repeats his words. Petals nipping what he could of that porcelain neck. He'd feel the tremble against his kiss, inwardly chuckling—right, Ky was one of those romantic sorts.

"Lemme tell ya, in y'er own language—" A step backward grants space between then, even more when his sturdy hand shoves Ky to stumble ahead a couple steps. Aforementioned hands still in a clasp caused the man in white to sling back towards him—gravity pulling him down to a backward fall, only to be caught by a strong arm. Turquoises wide, staring into what felt like space, upward at the brunet whose lips tucked to a cocky grin.

"I like y'er dress."

"Robe," Ky emphasizes, still reclined in his arm whilst the larger man stood poised by his lunge. "Why must you consistently tease me; and to what gain?" These sporadic moments of affection he knew Sol would later brush aside for reasons akin to post-traumatic stress. Searchingly gazing into the russets he adored, Ky frowns upon the first word: because. He expects the worst of him; instead he was reignited with that sense of HOPE.

"I love ya, boy."


End file.
